


Blind

by Toriga



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Sherlock, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toriga/pseuds/Toriga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd promised himself that he wouldn't try to stop him after the last time. That he'd let him shoot his brains out or overdose or whatever he came up with this time. He'd promised to let him go, yet here he was inching closer to his flatmate, his hand outstretched and shaking towards the pistol Sherlock had stolen from his bedroom.</p><p>A one shot in which John comforts Sherlock in a difficult time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind

**Author's Note:**

> The first fic I post here! Written over the course of a few nights. It's currently 5:00 AM, but I couldn't sleep until I finished this. I felt inspired!  
> Enjoy!

He'd promised himself that he wouldn't try to stop him after the last time. That he'd let him shoot his brains out or overdose or whatever he came up with this time. He'd promised to let him go, yet here he was inching closer to his flatmate, his hand outstretched and shaking towards the pistol Sherlock had stolen from his bedroom.

How did he always find it? How did he manage to make his way around his room and find it each time?

“Sherlock...please. Give it to me.” He tried to stay calm. He tried so hard to be keep himself together and put on the front of the strong soldier, but he couldn't keep his voice from shaking. “Give me the gun.”

“Leave me alone, John. Get out.” Sherlock's usual calm demeanor had become that of a foggy memory. John would worry about him more when he was quiet than if he was having a breakdown on the floor of one of the room's in the flat.“Don't you dare try to stop me, John. Don't you dare.” Sherlock spat at him, his hand shaking as he jabbed the pistol towards him. “You...you don't understand!” This is the Sherlock he'd been forced to get used to over the past few months. The Sherlock he'd offered to watch over instead of sending to a home or facility. Of course he did. He couldn’t let that happen. Not to him. Not to Sherlock.

“Maybe I don't, Sherlock, but I am here. I can help you, but only if you give the gun to me.” He held his hands up to show he wasn't a threat, then lowered them, scolding himself for being so stupid.

“What power do you have, John? Can _you_ fix _this_? Can your _love_ fix me?” He hissed at him, his hand shaking. “Leave. Now!”

He winced at the cruel words, then took another step forward, quiet and careful. “Please, Sherlock. You're being ridiculous.” He searched his brain for the right words, panic rising in his chest. “Don't do this, Sherlock. We can get through this.” Bad.

“We?” He scoffed, lowering the gun. John contemplated lunging for him while the gun was lowered, but decided against it. “This...is my...disability. Only mine.” He bit his lip, hiding the way it quivered as he struggled to hold back the emotions that he'd been slowly losing control of over the past couple of months. “Do _we_ take medication for the pain? Do _we_ have bruises from tripping over everything in the flat? Are _we_ unable to leave the flat without a damn escort? Are _we_ forced to burden the ones we care for? Are _we_ unable to do the things _we_ love to do? Are _we_ **blind**!?” His voice grew louder, his scarred face was red and covered in the tears that were beginning to spill from his eyes as the walls of his soul crumbled down. His eyes...pale and unseeing. Blind

“There's no such thing as we in this, John.” He lowered his head, a small sob coming from his trembling form. “Please...leave me alone.” He lowered himself to the floor, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, gun held loosely at his side. “I want to be alone.”

“Sher-” John's shoulders fell slightly. He took a small step towards him and, when Sherlock didn't show any signs of resisting, got down on his knees. He moved closer to him, speaking quietly. “I know you don't want that. Not really.” He was close enough to take the gun now. “Just give this to me.” He reached for the pistol, pulling it from his hand by the muzzle. Sherlock's bottom lip quivered, but he didn't move or try to pull the gun back. “I'm here, Sherlock. I told you I wouldn't leave you. I told you I'd help.” He took the gun and set it behind him, out of Sherlock's reach. “Come here, Sherlock. Come on.” He held out a hand, letting Sherlock reach out and grasp it before pulling him into a comforting embrace. “You're okay.” He cooed, his body relaxing, the panic leaving.

Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, his body shaking as he let the tears and sobs break free from his thin form. John wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer, running his hand over his back in a slow, soothing motion. “Please don't do this again. Please.” He nestled his nose into Sherlock's curls, sighing deeply.

“I'm sorry...for all the trouble I've caused...for being unable to work.” John bit his lip at the shaky words. He'd never heard such guilt and heartache come from the man before. Especially not before the accident. He pulled him closer. “I'll understand...” He tried to stop his voice from shaking. “if you decide to leave.” John shook his head quickly.

“I'm here to stay, Sherlock. I've told you that.” He maneuvered himself into a more comfortable sitting position, his legs stretched out in front of him, Sherlock's head resting on his chest. “I'm not leaving. No matter how much you want to get rid of me.” He attempted to lighten the mood, but was greeted with Sherlock's hand grabbing his shirt and pulling him close.

“I don't want you to.” He said simply. His voice was urgent and filled with fear. John smiled softly, sadness and guilt filling his chest.

“All right. I won't leave.” He rested his cheek against Sherlock's head, continuing to run his hand over his back, intending to do so until he was sure he was completely calm and relaxed. “I promise.” He whispered into Sherlock's curls. Promising the man that clung to him, the last bit of normalcy in his darkened world. Promising himself. And, this time, meaning it.

 


End file.
